Side Trip(61)

Chase was a monkey until Dylan threw up his hands and said, “Enough already!” He polished the lyrics and wrote the music for two reasons only: get Chase off his back and Joy out of his head.

Only one of them worked.

Which meant he had to finish the project to expel his feelings for her once and for all. He saw no other choice but to find a vocal artist and produce the album. Put the project to bed and the notebook back in the drawer. That should have done the trick.

“You’re a Grammy winner. Whoo!” Chase flutters his hands in the air, then smacks Dylan’s back. He grunts. “Show some excitement. You look like your dog died.”

He sure isn’t feeling the excitement over the award like he imagined. He should have told Joy about the album before he produced it.

He watches Chase fan the bills in his wallet, counting greenbacks. “You and Dakota still hitting up Mr. Purple later?” A trendy rooftop bar on the Lower East Side.

“You aren’t joining us for dinner?” Chase asks. He flew to the city to finalize a buyout. Westfield Records purchased Back Row Music, an independent label, at Dylan’s recommendation. He can take their artists further than the small label ever could.

But business isn’t the only thing that’s got Chase bunking in Dylan’s loft on a regular basis. During one of his trips he met Dakota Mercier, a graphic design artist. She’s worked on several Westfield Records projects and was in the studio presenting cover art concepts to him and Smoky Daze, an indie artist he recently signed, when Chase swung by on his way through town.

They hit it off immediately. Dylan has a grand riding on them not lasting.

Long-term relationships are not how he and Chase roll. Uncle Cal’s advice worked its way under their skin and has since stuck like an ugly tattoo, especially after Dylan mucked up his relationship with Sonia. He loved her, but not enough to keep his dick in his pants when that gorgeous model with the backstage pass propped her ass on a utility case and spread her runway long legs. Sonia had thought to surprise him with an unexpected visit. Her timing had been impeccable. Dylan will never forget the look on her face when she’d discovered them. It was the same look Jack had put on Billie’s face more than once.

Dylan pushes the Grammy box away and picks up the scotch he’s been nursing. “Got some offers to review. I’ll join you guys later.”

“No Rhea? I thought you had something going with her?” On-and-off-again Rhea McPherson, their sound engineer. Her moods are as touchy as the channels on the studio’s mixer.

He shakes his head. “We’re better together in the booth than out of it.” Though they still grab drinks when the mood strikes. That’s how he discovered Trace and his band, the Outlines. After working late one evening, he and Rhea went to the pub around the corner from the studio for eats and ales. Dylan had his back to the band. But halfway through the first song, he knew without looking, or even that he was looking, Trace was the guy to sing Joyride. The tonal quality of Trace’s voice, the way his fingers flew over the strings of his Strat, and how he carried himself onstage. The way he worked a crowd. Everything about Trace reminded Dylan of his own musicality.

By the end of the night, Trace took home Dylan’s card, and Dylan took home Rhea.

Maybe a night out with Rhea is what he needs. After his paperwork.

“I’ll text her. She might join us.”

“Sounds good. Catch you later.”

Dylan tops off his drink and Chase heads to the door. He stops and turns around with a snap of his fingers.

“By chance did you ever hear from her?”

He shoots Chase a blank look. “Hear from who?”

“Joy,” he says simply.

Awareness moves swiftly through him at the sound of her name. Joy is anything but simple. He swirls the lowball on the slate countertop, stares into the amber liquid. He shakes his head.

“Pity. I thought for sure the song would have knocked some sense into one of you when the track dropped.” Chase shakes his head. “Message her,” he says before the door shuts behind him.

Message her.

No harm in that. He’s already broken a couple of their deals—he knows her last name and didn’t keep what happened on the road, on the road. Why not break one more? Seek her out.

Correction. Seek out a happily married woman.

Message her? Yeah, not happening.

Yet that’s exactly what he thinks about doing when he looks over at his laptop and the stack of draft contracts waiting for him on the dining table. Suddenly he has no interest in legalese. Not tonight.

Settling into a chair, he wakes up his laptop and launches Facebook. He brings up her profile, the one that now shows married as her relationship status. She also added Larson some time ago to her Joy Evers profile name. That bit more than it should have when he discovered the change.

Before he can bypass or overrule his own actions, he clicks the message icon. The Messenger app launches and he starts typing.

Hey, how’ve you been?

He stops. That won’t work. His profile name isn’t his name. She won’t know that it’s him. She’ll think his message is spam.

He deletes it only to start typing again.

Hello, Joy. It’s me, Dylan. I’m on social media.

Lame.

Delete.

It’s Dylan. I’ve missed you.

Not the way to open a message to a married woman. Delete.